Les Fleurs du Mal, or, The Flowers of Evil
by Petronille
Summary: A short prequel to "House of Cards." Just exactly how did Lotor come up with the solution for all of his problems, the one that was staring him straight in the face all this time? Points of view limited to Lotor and Sophie. This is to hammer out voice and character. I just hope it's not crap.
1. Lotor

**Disclaimer: I don't own "Voltron," but all original characters are mine. This is a sort of short prequel to _House of Cards_, limited to Lotor's and Sophie's perspectives. This will also better explain some of the family and court dynamics. If there are any questions in regards to characters, please see _House of Cards. _Apologies if this chapter is a little short. "Les Fleurs du Mal" is the title of a volume of poems by Baudelaire.**

**Les Fleurs du Mal**

**Chapter One**

_Lotor._

His stepmother had always been kind to him.

And so had the old Grand Duke.

He remembered when his father had brought Plautilla to planet Doom as a second wife. Compared to Zarkon she'd seemed so small, a wispy thing, with skin the color of a magnolia, ringlets of glossy black hair, and sleepy, doe-like brown eyes. He'd wondered offhandedly if she was real, whether or not his father had brought home a doll or a ghost. She'd held out her hand, and had spoken to him softly, smiling. "I shall try to be a good mamma to you, as I'm sure your own mother would like."

He'd bowed to her, and kissed her hand as his tutor had rehearsed with him countless times. She had turned to Zarkon. "You've a very wonderful son, my lord husband," she remarked. "I do believe that he'll become a great man."

"Don't speak too soon, my dear," Zarkon had said. "He has yet to prove himself."

Prove himself, indeed. He had proven himself to his father a thousand times over, but still the King found something to be disappointed about.

His stepmother expressed some dismay, though, not over his prowess as a general and a conqueror, but as a future leader of a great empire. "Perhaps your lord father is disappointed with how everything has seemed to scatter with you. When you returned to Doom, you were an accomplished general with nearly no defeats to speak of. But now, though you have declared that you will defeat Voltron, you've returned with no victories. The reason why is very obvious."

She seemed to be hinting at something, and he had an inkling of what it was. "You're talking about the Princess of Arus."

She chuckled, reaching for her embroidery. "I'm talking of a great many things. Lotor, those of us who were born into positions of power not only enjoy the privileges that come with it, but also shoulder the responsibilities. You are now called upon to do this. Think carefully before you act, for you won't be able to take it back once it's done."

Yes, trust Plautilla to word her advice very carefully. She sounded no different than the old Grand Duke, and really, no different than his father, though her words weren't so sharp.

Really, it was a bunch of drivel.

"Your counsel is wise, Stepmother," he replied reverently, but she must have caught the bite of irony in his tone, and she looked up at him sternly.

"I would hope that you take it into consideration when your father next broaches the subject of marriage with you." She put down her embroidery, rising. "Your sisters are in the gardens and have asked about you twice today. We're taking lunch down there. Why not join us? They've spoken of nothing but you since this morning!"

His half-sisters. Plautilla had only been able to give his father two healthy girls and a stillborn boy after eleven years of marriage, and after the last birth, Zarkon had stopped all conjugal visits to his wife's chambers. Plautilla seemed more a ease with herself now; perhaps she was relieved that Zarkon had turned to his concubines. Zarkon had accepted that his wife would bear him no more sons, but she had brought him a considerable dowry of planets and moon colonies, most acquired not through war, but through politics, negotiations, arranged marriages, assassinations, and other sorts of intrigues. "Never turn your back on an Illyrian," the saying went, "because he will be all too happy to stab you there."

The girls were in the gardens with their governess present. Some of Plautilla's ladies-in-waiting had gone ahead to the gardens to play with the girls during his tête-à-tête with his stepmother. It was a game of blindman's bluff; one of the ladies was blindfolded and stumbling about, trying to follow the sounds of laughter so that she could capture one of the other players, after which the player caught would don the blindfold and the former pursuer would join the others in evading her. Darya danced out of the lady's way with an exhilarated shriek. Palmira grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her a safe distance away from the pursuer.

His sisters promised to be beautiful girls and they stood to inherit some of the smaller dukedoms in Illyria; there was no doubt that once they came of age, they would marry well. Both shared their brother's pale blue skin, but they had inherited their fine-boned faces, their masses of dark hair, and their Romanov blue eyes from their mother. Their father was a distant figure; he had left their upbringing to their mother, who made many of the final decisions in each aspect of their lives. They adored their brother and thought him the bravest man in the kingdom.

He watched them, trying to put a name to each face. Some of them he knew, like Rosaline and Amalia, and of course Hortense, who had been with the Queen since the day she had arrived. There were others who looked younger, whose names he didn't know. And then of course there was the blindfolded pursuer, who stood still for a moment, listening to giggles and the rustling of petticoats and the shuffling of shoes, until she reached out, taking the hand of the younger of the ladies-in-waiting.

"Mariana!" the pursuer exclaimed as she tore the blindfold from her eyes. A triumphant grin spread across her face as she handed the blindfold to the young woman who was to take her place.

Hortense noticed Plautilla and Lotor, and her murmur of, "Your Majesty, Your Highness," ended the game. The ladies-in-waiting turned to face the Prince and the Queen, and they curtsied. Darya's eyes lit up when she saw Lotor, and she ran to her brother, calling out his name, with Palmira following as gracefully as she could.

"You should have come down to play with us," Darya said. "We wanted you to come down, but Sophie said that you were talking with Mamma."

"Yes, I _was_ talking with your mother," he said, making sure to keep his tone as even as possible and kneeling so that they didn't have to crane their necks so to talk to him.

"What were you talking about?" Darya asked, and Palmira tossed her head and looked down at her younger sister matter-of-factly.

"They were talking of _grown-up_ things, Darya," she said with an air of superiority. He recognized the look on her face and the tone of her voice, for he'd heard it from someone else many a time. "Papa isn't going to send you out to fight again so soon, is he?"

"No," he answered, putting his arm around Darya. "Not yet."

"Sophie is teaching me how to walk like a lady," Palmira went on, stepping away from him. "Look—I'll show you." And she straightened her shoulders and imitated the gait of her mother and the ladies-in-waiting, taking her steps carefully. "And now..." She curtsied as the ladies-in-waiting had moments ago. Plautilla clapped her hands and went to her older daughter, hugging her close.

"Such a lady you are, sweeting! Your papa will be so proud of you!" she gushed. Lotor could see that Sophie was smiling.

"She persevered so, Plautilla! You would have been proud of her. Darya tried, but..." Sophie began.

"But I'm too young," Darya finished, leaning against her brother's shoulder. As the servants began to set the trestle table for lunch, she placed her hand on his. "Will you sit by me? I want to sit by you."

It was a simple request, one that he couldn't deny. Palmira took a seat on the other side of him, and Plautilla beside her at the head of the table. Sophie sat down at Plautilla's other side, while the ladies-in-waiting took their seats. There was much whispering and giggling among the younger ones, and he thought he overheard, "He _is _very handsome, but it doesn't mean that she _had_ to say yes..."

Hortense seemed to have caught this, too, and she sighed in mock disappointment. "Really, ladies—I ought to have you pack your things and have you on the next ship back home this instant! Gossiping at the table...! You ought to be setting a better example for the little princesses."

The ladies grew quiet. He clenched his fists in his lap to try and maintain a hold on his temper. So he was a laughingstock in Illyria, too, and the two spoiled, empty-headed little bitches had the audacity to speak of it in front of him!

"Lotor," Sophie hissed, "have done with it."

Sophie—yes, _that_ was whom Palmira had been imitating. The toss of the head, the beginnings of a smile, the imperious tone—_that_ was Sophie. She was a proud young woman, but then she had much to be proud of. Her grandfather had consolidated the Grand Duke's power in Illyria, reining in the nobles and putting an end to petty skirmishes and disputes. They owed their fealty to him, and he had ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Yet for all of this, he had paid very dearly. Or so he had always said when Lotor had spent the holidays from the Academy with the Grand Duke and his other two grandchildren.

"_How is greatness achieved, darling Sophie?" the Grand Duke asked his granddaughter._

_Sophie looked up from the book she had been reading. Marking her place, she closed it, set it on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. "Greatness is achieved through not only careful planning, quick decision-making, and cunning, but most of all, through patience."_

"_Bravo, as always, my dear!" The Grand Duke turned to Lotor as Sophie returned to her book. "This is something you must remember. You are to be a King, and we can make you into a great King, the greatest King the Drule Empire has ever known..."_

Patience.

If he was to win Allura of Arus, he needed to be patient, for she would eventually submit to him. And everyone who had laughed at him—his father, the two Illyrian tarts at the other end of the table, all of them—would pay once he had Allura at his side as his Queen.


	2. Sophie

**Disclaimer: I don't own "Voltron," but all original characters are mine. This is a sort of short prequel to _House of Cards_, limited to Lotor's and Sophie's perspectives. This will also better explain some of the family and court dynamics. If there are any questions in regards to characters, please see _House of Cards. _  
**

**Les Fleurs du Mal, or, The Flowers of Evil**

**Chapter Two**

_Sophie._

The words echoed throughout Sophie's mind unbidden.

"Really, it's just for fun!" Rosaline had said once the wisewoman had been sent to the humble quarters that had been procured for her that night. "Don't look so frightened, Sophie! Now you're starting to make _me _wonder whether or not _mine_ will come true..."

Sophie had plastered on a smile, and then had forced a laugh. "Of course it is, Rosaline! How silly I'm being..."

But she hadn't dared tell Plautilla or anyone else; it was her secret and Rosaline's. The other ladies-in -waiting had eagerly chattered on about their fortunes, making Plautilla laugh. "What was your fortune, Sophie?" Plautilla had asked, pouring Sophie more wine.

She thought of telling Plautilla she would divulge it later, but then she thought better of it and stammered something out about a grand marriage and riches beyond her wildest dreams. _And blood. _

"It's true, then?" Sophie said as she wrapped her hands around the warm mug of tea. "Zarkon has arranged a marriage for Lotor?"

Plautilla added some honey to her tea, then nodded. "Lotor has more or less rejected her, of course. The King is incensed, as he is right to be."

Sophie was curious now. "Who _is_ she?"

"Coralle of Demos."

"The King has no plans to honor his contract with Grandpapa?"

Plautilla shook her head.

Sophie glared down into her mug of tea. "So I'm to remain here, then, as the King's perpetual bargaining chip? Vanquish the Arusian war machine, and win the hand of the Illyrian archduchess? Plautilla, if it's to be that way, then I want to go _home_! Sebastian can..."

"Sebastian can do nothing," Plautilla interrupted, and Sophie's mouth snapped shut. "He is just as much bound by the King's will as you and I are. If the King would make him Grand Duke, then Sebastian would have some authority, but as it is now, he must wait, too."

Sophie sighed, sipping at her tea with a doleful expression.

"The King won't allow you to go home, anyhow," Plautilla went on. "He has told me several times that he likes having you here, that you _amuse_ him."

Sophie laughed bitterly. "The King finds how we all dance to his tune to be _amusing_."

"Nonetheless, Sophie," Plautilla said sharply, "I know you'll be gracious to the princess of Demos. Your treatment of her—along with mine—will determine how the rest of the court treats her. Therefore, you will be as cordial and courteous as though she were one of your own family members, for she very well may marry Lotor and call you cousin. Do you understand?"

Sophie nodded, setting aside her half-empty mug. "I do understand, Plautilla, and I shall endeavor to treat her as you say."

Plautilla smiled, rising to embrace her cousin. "I know it is difficult to see things through when they don't appear to be in your favor, but have patience, dearest, for soon the tide will turn, and your fortunes may rise."

Sophie let Plautilla envelope her into her jasmine-scented embrace, and she felt tears prick her eyes. Plautilla, who had been so like a mother to her after her own mother had been taken away from her when she was so young. Plautilla, who had brought her to court and transformed her from a gauche little archduchess to a woman ready to be a queen.

"Wear your cornflower-colored gown with your pearl headdress tonight," Plautilla advised Sophie as the younger woman made ready to leave. "You mustn't outshine the princess of Demos."

She turned to see the meaningful twinkle in Plautilla's eyes, and she smiled. "No," she replied, "I mustn't, must I?"

* * *

_You will rise high..._

"You're the only one here who hasn't laughed at me," Lotor remarked, gesturing for the slave to bring them both more wine. He had come to sit beside her after Plautilla had gone to play a game of cards in the corner with some visiting Illyrian nobles.

"I will laugh at you if you say something witty," she offered, leaning toward him.

"You can pretend I said something witty."

She smiled. "She seems taken with you."

"But I'm not with her."

"Does she offer anything beside her prettiness and her love and affection?"

"Do you mean a dowry? A rather large expanse of territory. It's purely for an alliance...and dynastic purposes." His lip curled in disgust at this.

"You weren't able to win the Arusian princess?" Sophie pursued, sipping at her wine, inclining her head.

"I wasn't going to _win _her as _you _would put it," he corrected. "Haggar was able to assist me with some of it, but there were some...complications..."

Sophie's eyes narrowed. "So I see."

"So you see what?" he bit out.

She hid a smile behind her goblet as she sipped at her wine once more. "You are completely besotted with her!"

"And you think it's a joke, too?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'm saying that you must be _more pragmatic _about it."

"And how would you propose I do that, sweet Sophie?" he replied, leaning closer to her.

Sophie glanced up at Princess Coralle, who was watching them intently. Lotor saw this, too, and he smirked.

"She suspects something," Sophie whispered, clutching the stem of her goblet with a white-knuckled hand.

"Let her," he said, his eyes beginning to glint with amusement.

"But if she doesn't...Oh, Lotor, your father!" Sophie exclaimed, shuddering.

"He'll be angry with me, not you." Now he took Sophie's hand into his and whispered into her ear, "I want her gone. You don't understand how much I want her gone. I would even tell my father I wanted to marry _you _if that's what it took..."

Sophie gasped, pulling away, dropping her goblet of wine on the floor in the process. She rose from the bench, trying to look as composed as possible. She went to Plautilla's side, stammering out that she'd had too much wine and wished to go to bed, and Plautilla gave her leave. "I'll see to you tomorrow, dearest," Plautilla said comfortingly.

Sophie hurried to her own room, and as her handmaid helped her to ready for bed, the wisewoman's words echoed again through her mind.

_Power. Tread carefully, for too much of it will kill you._

_Heartache._

_An uncrowned queen._

She had Celia order a sleeping draft for her, and that night, she had no dreams.

* * *

"She went home of her own accord," Plautilla told Sophie as they sat in the hothouse garden watching the princesses at their art lessons.

_Oh, great god..._ "I never meant..." Sophie began.

"Oh, tush, it's nothing to do with you. But I did speak with him after the King was done with him. Of course, I wasn't as harsh."

Sophie was curious. "What did you say to him?"

Plautilla glanced at her innocently. "I said nothing that contradicted the King's tirade. I advised him to be more pragmatic. If he must have Allura, then so be it, but he should go about it in a very different way..."

"How?" Sophie intoned.

Plautilla smiled innocently. "He is a very intelligent young man. He'll figure it out. I merely have planted the seed. Let us see how it grows."

"Plautilla..."

"You needn't worry about it. I was able to smooth Zarkon's ruffled feathers. _Lotor _is the one he is angry with for using you as a pawn. You two grew up together, and you're used to exchanging confidences. I promised him that I would advise you to be more circumspect with such things. But more importantly..." Here she leaned closer to Sophie, speaking more quietly. "Rest assured, sweeting, that with time, your fortunes will change. Your brother and Ancelin Fosco are at this moment going through the initial marriage contract Grandpapa had drawn up. I imagine that we can make your dowry much more appealing to Lotor than Coralle of Demos's was."

Sophie's brow furrowed. "Then this means..."

"It means, dearest cousin, that you will be a queen."


End file.
